


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone tells Sherlock that John getting married will change things. Well, <i>almost</i> everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ever-Fixed Mark

The case is simplicity itself: John is getting married, John wants Sherlock as his best man, ergo Sherlock will be the best best man ever. 

Admittedly, coming back to London and finding John on the verge of proposing was a surprise, but only for a moment. John’s a romantic. He confuses love with desire, sex with intimacy. With muddled thinking like that, it’s always been obvious he’d feel the need for a wife some day.

In fact, now Sherlock’s used to the idea, he’s glad John’s dating days are over. Relieved. At least there’s certainty now. Trying to remember all those names and faces was unutterably tedious, and never knowing when John might bring a woman home a source of constant uneasiness - as if Sherlock had left his Bunsen burner on and that, at any moment, the flat might burst into flames. Now he can relax. Mary’s moderately clever, unfussy and resourceful. John could have chosen far worse.

The ‘big day’ - as Mrs Hudson insists on calling it - is only ten weeks away, and Sherlock sets about his preparations with such absolute focus he scarcely notices how solicitous Mrs Hudson’s become, or how desperate for his help Lestrade claims to be. It would be nice to think they’re simply pleased to have him back but the truth is neither of them can quite get it into their head that John getting married won’t change anything.

Every idiot in the world seems to have an opinion on weddings, and the sheer weight of the data Sherlock uncovers is a comfort. It presses down on him like a physical force, transforming the nervous tension engendered by John’s request into something purposeful and easy to manage. He sifts through it diligently, pouring advice column after advice column into his mental boiling flask, then holds it mercilessly over the hot flame of Reason.

Once the purple prose and romanticism have burnt off, he finds he’s reduced his role in John’s wedding to three tasks: organizing the ‘stag night’ (the aim of which is to get John pleasantly but not dangerously drunk); taking charge of the wedding rings and producing them at the appropriate moment during the ceremony; and delivering the Best Man’s Speech. This latter, the experts all agree, must flatter the bride and make fun of the groom - though without giving offence to any maiden aunts who happen to be in attendance, or - Heaven forbid -providing grounds for divorce.

Sherlock can do that. He nods to himself and leans back in his chair, on the point of saying as much out loud, when he remembers John’s chair is empty. He’s still not used to that. Without John in it, the thing looks ill-proportioned. _Wrong_. Sherlock snorts. Mrs Hudson’s taste in furniture has always left a lot to be desired.

 _Talk of the devil …_ Downstairs, the door to the street opened, letting in a rush of traffic noise. It closes again with a bang that seems all the louder in the re-established silence.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson calls. “It’s only me.”

 _Of course it is. Who else would it be? John doesn’t live here any more._ Sherlock hates it when people feel compelled to state the obvious.

There’s a rustle of plastic as carrier bags are dumped in the hall, then the sound of Mrs Hudson’s footsteps on the stairs.

“I’m _working_!” Sherlock bellows, but the footsteps keep coming anyway. He snatches up his violin, and attacks a sequence of jarring chords.

Mrs Hudson appears in the doorway, nose wrinkled, mouth pursed. “That’s a bit dark, isn’t it? For a wedding?”

She thinks Sherlock’s composing - the waltz he began writing to help him think. He decides not to disabuse her of the notion.

“Weddings,” he declares, rising from his chair and setting the violin aside, “mark the beginning of a lifetime of social, intellectual and sexual slavery. I’d say ‘dark’ was wholly appropriate.”

Mrs Hudson looks duly scandalized. “Sherlock Holmes!” she scolds, marching over. “Don’t you dare say you’re not going.”

“Of course I’m going,” Sherlock says, grinning with the simple joy of pulling the rug out from under her assumptions. “I’m the best man.”

Mrs Hudson beams and claps her hands together.

“That’s wonderful. Marvellous. You and John - you’ve been friends for so long, haven’t you? Been through so much together. And apart. Sherlock, if you’d seen him …” She pauses, suddenly sombre. “John is a good man. He deserves to be happy. And Mary … she’s lovely, isn’t she? So sweet, so pretty. She’ll make him such a good wife, I’m sure of it.”

There’s only so much of Mrs Hudson’s wittering Sherlock can tolerate and he finds he’s just reached his limit.

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” he demands, pushing her towards the stairs. “Mr Chatterjee’s divorce came through a week ago. He could probably do with some company. And the scratch-card delivery man’s car was parked outside earlier. You could have a little flutter. More than one. Lots of little flutters. A whole flock of them.”

Mrs Hudson scowls at him and digs her heels in. “There’s no need to be snippy. If you want to be alone, then just say so.”

Sherlock stops manhandling her, steps back, and inclines his head, fake-chivalrous. “I want to be alone.”

Mrs Hudson jiggles her shoulders indignantly and tosses her head. “Yes. And that’s just as well, dear.”

~~~

Sherlock had assumed writing a best man’s speech would have a lot in common with solving a case: assemble the data, discard the impossible and set what’s left in logical order. Sadly, this assumption proves once again that it’s a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the evidence.

The book ( _How To Write An Unforgettable Best Man’s Speech_ ) says: a) thank everyone for coming; b) toast the parents; c) talk about the newlyweds as couple; then d) tell a funny story about the groom.

The book says it’s easy. The _book_ is wrong.

Staring at it, Sherlock experiences a sudden rush of sympathy for Lestrade and his general cluelessness because, no matter how hard Sherlock tries, he can’t think of a single reason to praise Mary over John; he certainly can’t find a way of making it _funny_.

For long minutes, he’s in utter despair. This is every bit a terrifying as seeing the Hound when reason told him it couldn’t be there, and every bit as painful as Irene Adler beating him.

_Think! Think!_

Outside, a police car screeches past, blue lights flashing, alarm a shrieking wail.

Sherlock claps his hands together. _Of course!_ He needs an expert. A man who’s been through all this wedding nonsense before. Lestrade. Sherlock snatches up his phone.

 _HELP_ , he types. _BAKER STREET. NOW. HELP ME. PLEASE._

The supplication, the block capitals, clearly do the trick because, less than thirty minutes later, Lestrade comes thundering up the stairs, gasping for breath.

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock rubs at his temples. “This is hard. Really hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. D’you know any funny stories about John?”

“ _What_?"

“I need anecdotes,” Sherlock explains, looking up. He finds Lestrade gaping at him, and suddenly the jumbled background noise he’s had on mute resolves itself into sirens and the sound of rotating helicopter blades. “You didn’t go to any trouble, did you?”

“I _thought_ ,” Lestrade says bitterly, once he’s got his breath back and stood down MI5, “you were being murdered.”

Sherlock sighs. “I wish I were. Has to be less horrible than this.”

~~~

Ten minutes later, they’re in the Allsop Arms on Gloucester Place. Sherlock has no idea why they have to be in a pub - alcohol is a disaster for brainwork - but Lestrade insists, saying it’s the least Sherlock can do after ‘scaring him half to death’ and for being such ‘a bloody drama queen’.

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” Lestrade grins, when Sherlock returns from the bar and sets a pint in front of him.

Sherlock sits down opposite him and watches the bubbles in his own beer gather and rise. “Not really.”

“Yeah. Right,” Lestrade laughs, as comprehension dawns. “It wasn’t you … it was John. Damn - it’s all change now, isn’t it?”

“ ‘Old times’? ‘All change’?” Sherlock growls. “Make up your mind.”

Lestrade swallows down mouthful of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking wistful. “Don’t suppose there’ll be many nights out with the boys once John gets married. He’ll be too busy mowing the grass and choosing cushion covers.”

A picture of John, pushing a mower, flashes across Sherlock’s mind. It’s unexpectedly offensive and he narrows his eyes. “If that’s your idea of marriage, Lestrade, no wonder your wife left you.”

Lestrade’s amiable expression wobbles and he takes another long swig of beer. “I’m just saying, that once a bloke’s married, things change. That’s how it goes. Still, we’ve got the reception before all that. Free bar! John may be going down, but he’s going down in style.” Lestrade raises his glass in salute. “To John!”

“To John,” Sherlock agrees and takes a sip from his own beer. He puts it down again immediately. It’s the nastiest drink he’s ever had.

Not that Lestrade seems to think there’s anything wrong. “Who’d’ve thought it, eh?” he goes on, shaking his head. “ ‘Confirmed bachelor’ John Watson, getting married. Another one bites the dust. It’ll be you next.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Marriage is an absurd institution, invented by idiots obsessed with ensuring the purity of the bloodline - presumably so that their weak chins and soft brains could be passed on in perpetuity. It’s a complete fallacy to believe that two people can be happy in a life-long, monogamous relationship. Bad enough when most women died young in childbirth, but insane when both participants are likely to linger on into their nineties.”

Lestrade blinks. “Yeah, but you’re still happy for John, right? I mean, he’s your mate.”

Happy? The idea hadn’t even crossed Sherlock’s mind. Outside of work, he rarely does ‘happy’ even on his own account, let alone anyone else’s.

“Are people usually happy when their ‘mates’-” Sherlock raises his hands to put air quotes around the word. “- get married?”

Lestrade’s nod is emphatic. “Yeah.”

Sherlock considers the odd tightness in his chest, the leaden butterflies in his stomach and grunts. “Yes, well, moving on - funny stories. About John.”

Lestrade rubs his chin. “Not sure I can help you. Don’t suppose people will want to hear about him chinning the Super … although, looking back, that _was_ pretty funny. But _you_ must know plenty. How about when the two of you had to share a room in that pub on Dartmoor? Did he say anything stupid in his sleep? Do any naked sleepwalking?”

The memory of that night comes rushing back, alarmingly clear. John, undressing for bed - his manner brisk, matter-of-fact and soldierly. John - unbuttoning, unzipping, and folding. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock sees the little pile of his shirt, and jumper, and jeans on the chair at the foot of the bed. Sees himself waiting, heart in his mouth as John bent over to peel off first one sock, then the other, the hard muscles of his thighs shifting under his pale, finely haired skin.

“No,” Sherlock says, shakily, trying to forget.

_John didn’t even take off his pants._

“Better have a chat with Mike Stamford, then,” Lestrade advises. “He’s known him longer than either of us, after all.”

 _Mike Stamford! Of course!_ Why didn’t Sherlock think of that?

~~~

On warm days, Mike orders a takeaway latte from Criterion Coffee on Bernard Street to drink in Russell Gardens; on grey days, like today, he has his lunch indoors - as regular as clockwork. It’s reassuring to know there’s still one fixed point in Sherlock’s rapidly changing world. He orders an Americano, grabs a couple of sachets of sugar and pushes deeper into the café.

Mike is at one of the tables at the back, eyes drifting lazily around the room as he devours a second doughnut, his podgy face a study in contentment. His eyebrows shoot up when he spots Sherlock, but he brushes the sugar from his mouth and beckons him over.

“Thought you hated this place,” he grins, as Sherlock sits down. “‘Over-priced and over-complicated’, wasn’t it?”

“Was,” Sherlock says. “Is.”

A toddler in a red plastic mac near the window gives an ear-splitting scream and pounds its grubby little fists against the glass.

“Well, I know you’re not here for the ambiance,” Mike laughs, after the hateful child has been shushed. “So why come here at all? You usually just come to the lab.”

The trouble with chiding people about seeing yet not observing is that, eventually, one of them will make the effort. Sherlock tears the sugar sachets open and empties them into his coffee.

“John’s getting married.”

“Yeah, I know. Got an invite.” Mike nods and takes another greasy, sugary bite of doughnut. “What d’you think of his missus?”

“ ‘Missus’ ? They’re not married yet. Strictly speaking, she’ll only be his-”

“Figure of speech, Sherlock - figure of speech.”

The misstep is unsettling. Taking things too literally always makes Sherlock feel stupid, and his inner Mycroft rolls its eyes, declaring him a miserable disappointment. Sherlock swallows down a mouthful of coffee, and stuffs a doughnut into his inner Mycroft's mouth.

“I like her,” he says, raising his chin. “She’s quick, clever - and she needs him just enough for him feel useful. What more could he want?”

“Yeah,” Mike says with an odd little exhalation that Sherlock can only assume is due to indigestion. “Funny. That’s what I thought too.”

“Yes, well, talking of funny - I need stories. About John. He wants me to be his best man.”

“Well, of course he does. If it wasn’t for you, he probably would even be around today, let alone getting married.”

It takes Sherlock a while to process this. He’s always thought of John as the one who saved him - not the other way around, but now he considers it, he sees Mike’s right. Thin as a lath under those woolly jumpers when they first met, John was also diffident, wary, and crippled by a psychosomatic limp. Within twenty-four hours, Sherlock had him running around London, all memory of ever having needed a walking stick completely forgetten. Under Sherlock’s influence, he stopped being proper and serious all the time and remembered how to laugh.

And how does John repay him? By getting married and expecting Sherlock to be there at his side, smiling and giving speeches to a roomful of morons. Sherlock feels his jaw tighten with anger. Over at the window, the plastic mac-wearing toddler starts screaming again.

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock leaps out of his seat and gesticulates wildly at the mother. “Can’t you keep that thing quiet? What kind of a mother are you, anyway? Look at it! Its hands are filthy and its nose needs wiping!”

The woman squeals in protest and a dull little man in Criterion Coffee colours hurries over.

“Sir,” he says in an embarrassed undertone, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to-”

“Leave? It’ll be my pleasure”

Sherlock barges him out of the way and escapes onto the street. It’s better out here, where there’s space to breathe. People are too much trouble.

~~~

As the weeks go by, Sherlock realizes John is about as good at planning a wedding as Anderson is at getting useful information from a crime scene. Instead of focusing on the guest list, or the bridesmaids’ dresses, all John seems interested in doing is trawling through Sherlock’s inbox and whining about how it’s been ages since they got stuck into anything interesting. Sherlock doesn’t know how Mary puts up with it. She says it’s probably just pre-wedding nerves but Sherlock isn’t convinced - he remembers John’s nerves from the early days, his nightmares and his sudden, horrifying flashbacks - but with John putting zero energy into getting ready for his big day, all the online experts agree: it’s Sherlock's responsibility to take up the slack.

First on his list this morning is to pick up their wedding suits from the outfitters. He’s almost back at the flat when a familiar black Jaguar pulls up and Mycroft steps out. Sherlock watches him deduce the colour and fit of the suits inside their zipped bags, as well as John’s general lack of interest, in the blink of an eye.

“Black? For a wedding? Was that your choice or his?”

Sherlock glares. “Mary’s.”

Mycroft sees through the lie at once, and laughs gaily. “Well, it’s not too late to switch to something brighter, if I can persuade you into something less … _funereal_. A nice silver grey, perhaps?”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock snaps, “but this is _John’s_ wedding. When it’s _yours_ , _you_ can choose.”

Mycroft grimaces. “Me? Get married? Really not my style.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “Nor mine. Now go away. I’m busy. As soon as I’ve put these away, I need to talk to the caterers and make a booking for the rehearsal.”

Sherlock takes a decisive stride past Mycroft towards the front door. Mycroft follows - right into 221B’s hallway and up the stairs to the flat.

“Come on, then - out with it,” Sherlock demands, draping the wedding suits over the back of John’s chair. “Because you can’t stay. John will be here soon. I’m giving him a lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“I’m teaching him how to waltz for their first dance. I can’t have him lumbering around, trampling Mary’s toes.”

Mycroft arches a brow. “I doubt it would surprise her. She must surely be acquainted with the quality of John’s _entire_ skill set by now.”

There’s a nasty smirk lurking at the edge of Mycroft’s mouth, but Sherlock ignores it. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft twiddles with his umbrella for a moment, then plants the point decisively into the carpet and smiles. “I have a case for you. For you _and_ John. The Honduran ambassador has a problem at his official residence. It involves a pachyderm.”

“A what?”

“An elephant.”

“I know what a pachyderm is!”

“Could have been a rhinoceros,” Mycroft points out. _Annoyingly_. “Or a hippopotamus.”

“D’you want me to take this case or not?”

Mycroft smiles. “Somehow, an elephant has materialized in the ambassadorial drawing room. No-one seems to know how - given the size of the door and windows - and it’s too large to get out again without causing considerable damage.”

A prickle of interest runs up Sherlock’s spine - a locked room mystery! He loves those - but this is Mycroft, so he shrugs and feigns indifference.

“The ambassador could claim it’s ‘a feature’. A diversion from the tedium of international diplomacy.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flare. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but diplomacy takes considerable concentration. Diversions can lead to all kinds of unreasonable clauses being slipped into treaties.”

“Ignore it, then,” Sherlock says, and flings himself into his chair.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs. “No-one can ignore an elephant in the room. Not even you. Not even in this one.”

“What? There’s no elephant-”

“Isn’t there? I’d have thought it was as plain as the nose on your face. I did warn you, didn’t I? Because it was obvious from the start that it could never last - you and John Watson, in Baker Street, together forever. It was a fantasy, Sherlock - a dream - but now it’s time you woke up. John’s getting married and everything will change.”

Sherlock can’t hear this. John’s already living with Mary; his getting married won’t make any difference.

“I’ll take the case,” he says to shut Mycroft up. “I’ll call John now, and we’ll take the case.”

Mycroft’s eyes flick across Sherlock’s face, far too searchingly, and for far too long.

“Yes,” he says at length. “I thought you might. You never could resist the appeal of the impossible, could you?”

~~~

Despite its outward promise, The Elephant in the Room case - as John rather prosaically calls it on his blog - is actually one of the easier cases Sherlock’s worked on. Oily deposits on the bookshelves lead him to the discovery of a secret handle - a secret handle that opens a secret door, or rather, a whole wall. That’s the How of it. The Why is only slightly more complicated, and easily uncovered by flirting with the housemaid. She confides that the ambassador’s wife hates England, hates the climate and desperately wants to go home but her husband won’t listen, always insisting that, deep down, his wife adores London and couldn’t bear to live anywhere else. A reception at which the Lord Mayor boasted about this ‘fact’ to the press was apparently the last straw - hence the elephant.

The case solved, Sherlock delights in demanding a sizeable fee from Mycroft. Since he has no need for the cash himself, he immediately adds it to the wedding funds. John’s not made of money and Mary has ordered bridesmaids’ dresses in lilac silk, and a bridal gown trimmed with antique Nottingham lace - not to mention a vast array of perfume and wedding cake samples.

Meanwhile, John seems as detached from the proceedings as ever, and perfectly happy to let Sherlock assist Mary in drawing up the seating plan and making decisions about all the little details - such as which way the napkins should be folded. An evening on YouTube, and Sherlock has whittled their napkin options down to two front-runners: a swan design or the Sydney Opera House. He prefers the opera house, and makes rather a lot of them.

John scarcely even notices and, instead of commenting, he thrusts his phone into Sherlock’s hand and begs - yes, actually begs - him to pick a case, any case, to give him an excuse for getting out of the house. Sherlock’s delighted: John’s lack of interest in his own wedding proves that, to him, the event is no big deal. Unlike everyone else, John certainly doesn’t expect getting married to change anything: he’d be trying to reassure Sherlock if he did.

Relieved, Sherlock selects a request for help from a guardsman named Bainbridge.

Private Bainbridge is on duty when they arrive at Wellington Barracks, meaning Sherlock and John have to wait. In order to put the time to good use, Sherlock chooses a park bench opposite Bainbridge’s post, so that they can observe him at work - and possibly his stalker too.

The air is chilly, the sky grey, but Sherlock is comfortable, sitting beside John. The important things never change.

Suddenly a name pops into Sherlock’s head - a name that’s been niggling at him ever since he first saw it on the guest list. James Sholto. _Major_ James Sholto. ‘His commanding officer’, according to Mary. ‘A friend’, according to John. And a hugely controversial Victoria Cross-winning hero, according to the internet.

“So, why don’t you see him any more?” Sherlock asks, because clearly whatever John may say, things can change and he’s lost touch with friends before. “Your previous commander, Sholto.”

There’s an awkward moment or two where John avoids the question by taking exception to the implications of ‘previous’ but, in the end, his answer’s reassuring. Sholto underwent a tragedy and is now a recluse. _That’s_ what changed things. It was Sholto’s decision to disappear from John’s life, not John’s to vanish from his, and Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief.

John must hear it, or suspect something, because he looks at Sherlock askance. 

“Why have you suddenly taken an interest in another human being?”

Sherlock swallows. His momentary doubt feels stupid now. “I’m … chatting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John turn to look at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.

“Won’t be trying that again,” Sherlock promises.

In the branches above them, birds sing. Across the road, another tourist takes another snapshot of Bainbridge.

“Changing the subject completely,” John begins, only to stop and inhale noisily, as he always does when bracing himself. The sound makes Sherlock’s stomach tighten and grow cold.

 _Don’t say it_ , he thinks, panicking, but of course, John does. The reassuring words trip glibly from his tongue, not reassuring at all.

“You know it won’t alter anything, right? Me and Mary, getting married?”

Sherlock freezes, keeping his gaze fixed dead ahead. If he pretends he doesn’t hear, perhaps everything be all right. But John goes on, oblivious.

“We’ll still be doing all this. If you were worried.”

"I wasn't worried," Sherlock says, and he _wasn't_ \- not really - but he is now. Because now he can see the lie in what he's been telling himself. See the gulf between what the two of them have seen in ‘all this’. As ever, John is a conductor of light, but he’s made the London sky duller and the wind more chill and, as John launches into an explanation of how Mary’s changed his life, Sherlock gets to his feet and walks swiftly away.

~~~

Change, Sherlock rapidly discovers, isn’t a single event but an avalanche of them, fact after cold hard fact tumbling down on him so hard they knock the air from his lungs and threaten to suffocate him. He’s no sooner acclimatized himself to the notion that his relationship with John is no longer the most important thing in John’s life, than he realizes that Mary is pregnant. He tries to put a brave face on, teasing John, then insisting he’ll be a wonderful father, but inside he feels sick and cold. As an adult who’s more than capable of looking after herself, Mary might have been pushed to the sidelines once John’s sexual delirium wears off, but a baby? Never.

Sherlock is still the same, but John has moved on. He’s waltzing away even now, wrapped tightly in his new wife’s arms.

Sherlock watches them for a while, then pushes his way through the bounding and swaying idiots on the dance-floor to collect his coat and escape. It’s only as he hands his cloakroom chit over that he notices Molly Hooper has followed him. As he waits for the attendant to sort through the hangers, she leans back against the wall and gazes up at the ceiling.

“You think it’ll change everything, him getting married,” she says, her words slightly slurred. “It won’t.”

Sherlock ignores her. It’s just the drink talking. He’d like to believe her but he knows she’s wrong.

“You think it’ll get better,” Molly says. “That in a few weeks’ time, the feeling will have gone. But it won’t. You love him. John getting married won’t change that.”

“You’ve had too much wine,” Sherlock says. “Get your boyfriend to take you home.”

Molly shakes her head. “You’ll get used to it, but you won’t stop loving him, “ she says, her eyes suddenly shimmering. “And not having him will always hurt.”

Sherlock wishes - suddenly, and fervently - that he’d never encouraged her, never led her on for the sake of a case.

“Molly, I ... I’m …”

“Sorry?” She pushes away from the wall, rises up on tiptoes and kisses him lightly on his cheek. “I’m sorry, too.”

~~~

The worst of it is, Molly’s right. It doesn’t get better. It gets _worse_. Sherlock doesn’t contact John, and John doesn’t call, but it gets worse anyway, and cigarettes aren’t anywhere near comfort enough.

It’s a relief when Lady Smallwood turns up, asking for help - and all the excuse Sherlock needs to go back to cocaine. He tells himself it’s essential - he needs Magnussen to think he’s a hopeless addict and therefore no threat - but the truth is, without John, there’s no point in staying clean.

But then Fate, The Universe, Coincidence step in - all of them shouting _WRONG!_

The crackhouse Sherlock uses in Clerkenwell is a seedy, cheerless place full of addicts as dead-eyed and directionless as him. The last place in the world Sherlock would have expected John Watson to come, yet here he is - clean-shaven and perfect. Not to mention quietly, wonderfully furious.

Sherlock’s heart starts to sing.

~~~

It gets complicated after that. But it always was, between him and John. At one point, Sherlock thinks John might leave Mary - her putting a bullet in his heart certainly won her no credit with John, and the violence of her past made him physically sick. But Mary’s having John’s baby, and no matter how pissed off John is with her, Sherlock knows John won’t walk away from that.

Alone in a private ward once again, Sherlock has time to think. John’s been through so much - war and injury and loss. In many ways his life has been a mess. Becoming a father … for him, it’s a second chance.

So Sherlock does what needs to be done. What John needs. He forgets about being John’s … whatever, and remembers that, first and foremost, he’s John’s friend. He’ll protect Mary from Magnussen for John’s sake, and then he’ll melt quietly away.

~~~

Well, that was the plan, and Sherlock might have stuck to it had it not been for Magnussen’s cruel little game. Standing by powerless as Magnussen made John - _John_ , who’s braver than anyone - flinch over and over again is more than Sherlock can bear and, eventually, something inside him snaps.

He stuffs a hand into John’s pocket and pulls out his gun.

Then, as Mycroft’s helicopter circles warningly overhead, Sherlock shoots Magnussen dead.

~~~

The tears that spill from Sherlock's eyes as Mycroft's men snap on the handcuffs and propel him across Appledore's immaculately clipped grass, are not for himself. They're not even for John. They're for Redbeard and pirates; for a night in London when, with John at his side, he looked up and - impossibly - saw the stars. They’re for all the times Sherlock’s let himself believe that life might be more than just _this_.

Mycroft’s men push him into the helicopter. One of them straps him in, whilst the others scurry away, back across the grass and up the steps onto Magnussen's patio.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says, his tone unbearably sad. "What have you done?"

Sherlock holds himself very still. "There was a problem. I solved it."

Beyond the helicopter's windscreen, the small, shocked figure of John is being gently coaxed back inside the house. He's moving slowly, and heavily, like he's forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other, but he slaps away any hand that reaches out to help.

The low purr of the helicopter’s engine swells and rises to a roar, and the rotor blades slice through the air faster. Sherlock feels the pull of gravity, feels it stretch and break.

“It didn’t make any difference,” Sherlock says as John’s outline becomes a blur, then shrinks to a dot. “John’s marriage. You said it would.”

Mycroft shakes his head, looking far older than his forty-four years. “I'm sorry," he says. "This time, Sherlock, I don’t think I can save you.”

~~~

On the airfield, with Mycroft’s private jet waiting on the tarmac behind him, Sherlock almost tells John how he feels. That he’s loved him from the moment they first met, but was too stupid to realize it. He doesn’t. He can’t. Not when he knows he’s heading to his death. He can’t leave John with a burden like that. So he makes a joke and shakes hands, and pretends this is nothing, that nothing in their lives has changed.

Five minutes later, the plane takes off, but from his seat near the window, Sherlock can still see John on the ground. He watches him greedily, drinking in every last moment. These days, his hard drive’s almost all John. He hasn’t deleted a single second of him. He only wishes things were different. That there could be more.

“Sir?” the steward says, breaking into Sherlock’s thoughts. The man is brandishing a phone. “It’s your brother.”

Sherlock takes the phone and holds it to his ear.

“Hello, little brother,” Mycroft says, sounding positively smug. “How’s the exile going?”

This is typical of Mycroft - selfishly distracting Sherlock from his last sight of John. He grits his teeth. “I’ve only been gone four minutes.”

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learnt your lesson,” Mycroft purrs. “As it turns out, you’re needed.”

 _Needed_? Sherlock’s heart beats suddenly faster, but his head urges restraint. He takes a deep breath, trying to flatten the swarm of butterflies that has just taken flight in his stomach.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?”

“England,” Mycroft says with a self-conscious little huff and that one, small sound convinces Sherlock that hope is justified after all. The plane is already turning, circling back on itself and descending. Mycroft has done it again.

Sherlock re-buckles his seatbelt. He’s going home. Back to England, to London. To John.

And things _are_ going to change.

He’ll make sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love is not love_   
>  _Which alters when it alteration finds,_   
>  _Or bends with the remover to remove._   
>  _O no, it is an ever-fixed mark_   
>  _That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_   
>  _It is the star to every wand'ring bark,_   
>  _Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._
> 
> William Shakespeare - Sonnet 116
> 
>    
> With many beta thanks to rroselavy and verilyvexed


End file.
